by S. J. Madill
Roche gave her a grim smile as he approached, stepping around several bodies. "Christ, General, I'm glad you're here. I'm told you tried to contact me. My comms unit died."
"No matter. Are any of your people injured?"
"No, General. A couple near misses. But it was about to go to hell when your squad opened fire. My people had the spirit, but hadn't had enough training."
"They had the will to fight, Major. That was enough. The rest will come with practice." She nodded in the direction of the mercenary leader on the ground, then at Irasa. "That one was in charge of the raid. Irasa here has been looking at his datapad."
Major Roche looked up at Irasa, leaning back a little to see her face.
Irasa turned to Zura. "Mahasa?"
"Go ahead."
Irasa nodded. "Mahasa, the mercenary's Tunnel cell is connected to a small Uta computer network belonging to the clan of a war-leader named Qiviq. The computer is located on the planet Kinnihik, third planet of the system of that name." The woman's face split into a smile. "I was attempting to find out more when they ended the connection, Mahasa."
"Very well, Irasa," said Zura. "Well done."
"Yes, Mahasa."
"Now," said Zura, gesturing over her shoulder at Yaella. "Take the girl home. Stay with her until I return."
Irasa bowed. "Yes, Mahasa. Do you want your helmet?"
Zura looked back at Yaella, who was staring at the bodies on the ground, still clutching the helmet. "No," she said. "Let her keep it."
She kept watching as Irasa stepped up to Yaella, said a few words that Zura didn't hear, and the two of them walked off together. Yaella looked so tiny and delicate next to the tall, broad-shouldered Irasa; the girl barely came up to the soldier's chest. She hadn't even looked up; she just turned and walked away, still holding the helmet, Irasa beside her.
"It'll affect her," said Roche. "Kids shouldn't see violence. Shouldn't see things like this."
"I know," said Zura. At least the bodies Yaella had seen weren't those of people she loved. She wondered if that would make a difference. Or if, as with so many things, it depended on the individual. Yaella was four years older than Zura had been, back when her own colony had been attacked. The humans had a saying: 'time heals all wounds', but did it really? Even a lifetime measured in centuries didn't feel like it had healed everything. The scars had faded, but they were still there.
In the distance, she saw Irasa reach out a hand to Yaella, who took a step sideways to keep away. They would have to have a talk later. But she had no idea what to say that wouldn't make things worse.
"Major," she asked, breaking her own train of thought. "Did you obtain the identity of the ship that got away?"
Roche seemed surprised at the change of subject. "Yes, General. Shall I send it to you?"
"Yes."
"Will do," said Roche. He pulled out his datapad.
"Very well," said Zura. She reached up to her shoulder and pulled out her own datasheet, unrolling it in her hands. Several taps on the display, and a communications channel opened up.
Captain Upara's face appeared. "Mahasa?"
"Captain, change course. Go to the Kinnihik system, in the Eldoor sector. Third planet."
"Yes, Mahasa." Upara turned her head to one side, gesturing to someone out of view. Behind her, the streaked starfield of FTL travel shuddered, the stars jolting to a halt, their stretched lines collapsing to individual points of light. "Your orders, Mahasa?"
"Upara, I'm sending you the identity of a small freighter than just left here. I believe it is headed to Kinnihik. I want to know if it arrives there."
Behind Upara, the stars slid sideways in the control-room windows, before being yanked back into long lines as the Kahala Hila accelerated to FTL. "Yes, Mahasa. We will arrive at Kinnihik in…" Upara looked offscreen a moment. "One hour, twenty-one minutes."
"Very well. Contact me five minutes before you arrive. That is all."
Upara bowed. "Yes, Mahasa."
When Zura let the datasheet roll itself back up, she saw Roche looking off to one side. She followed his eyes, and saw the two councillors approaching, walking quickly between the fields. Most of the fires had gone out, but patches of ground and mangled ship parts continued to smoulder, leaking black smoke into the air.
Miller was red-faced and huffing; whether it was from being upset or just from the walk across the field, Zura didn't know. "General! Major! What happened? Were we attacked?"
It seemed a curious thing to ask. Zura glanced over her shoulder at the burning remains of the downed ship and the mercenary bodies on the ground. She saw Singh moving among them with several volunteer medics. Half a dozen mercenaries had already been covered with sheets, as was the human custom to hide the dead. "Yes, Councillor," she said. "Slavers. Major Roche and the volunteer militia were very brave." She looked at Roche.
"All our people are fine," said Roche. "Not even a scratch."
"Oh," said Miller. "Thank heavens for that. They were in danger."
Roche nodded. "Very much, Councillor."
It was as if Miller had just seen the mercenary bodies for the first time. Her eyes went wide, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. "But… what of them? Those poor people—"
"Poor people?" asked Zura. "They were slavers, Councillor. They came here to take everyone as slaves. Including you."
She shook her head. "But people don't just do that. There must have been some injustice or economic hardship. No one would—"
"Money," said Zura. "They did it for money." She motioned at the unconscious mercenary leader. Singh had just knelt beside him, and was using her scanner on him. "It was 'just business'."
"What will you do with them, General? What of the people who were paying them?"
"It is being taken care of," said Zura.
"Well, will they be brought to justice?"
"It is being taken care of," she repeated.
Councillor Lang was chewing at his lip. "More like, justice will be brought to them." The older man's face was pulled together into a wrinkled mask. Zura couldn't read his expression; it was somewhere between worry and anger. "Am I right?"
"Are you sure you want to know, Councillor?"
Lang's red-rimmed eyes peered at Zura. "If it's being done in our name—"
"It is not, Councillor. It is being done in my name. I am responsible."
Miller seemed not to have been listening, gazing past the bodies to the burning freighter. She gave her head a small shake, tutting to herself. "What will we do with that?"
Zura looked over at the wreck. The outer shell of the vessel was sagging, its individual plates peeled away or separated at the seams. Smoke poured out, though it seemed to be slackening. "It isn't going anywhere, Councillor."
"Oh," whispered Miller. She didn't look at any of them, but began to slowly walk away, past the sheet-covered bodies, toward the burning freighter.
Lang hummed a moment. "Maybe don't mind her, General. She's having trouble with all this."
Zura nodded. Not everyone was good in a crisis; that wasn't a surprise to her. What did surprise her was that someone so obviously unsuited to stressful situations would be put in a position of leadership.
Zura pointed at Roche. "What do you need from me, Major?"
Roche shook his head. "We're good, General. We'll sort this out. We'll lock up the survivors in the warehouse, and put a guard on them. These…" he nodded toward the bodies, "…we'll put in cold storage for now."
"Good." Scanning the area, she saw Pelaa nearby. "Squad Leader," she called out.
"Yes, Mahasa," said Pelaa, coming to her side.
"You and your squad are at the major's disposal. Irasa is at my residence for now. Kahala Hila won't be back for hours."
"Yes, Mahasa."
"And you…" she pointed at Councillor Lang. "What do you need from me?"
Lang blinked, his mouth moving a moment before words came out. "I can't think of anything."
"Very well. I'll b
e in my office. My day isn't done yet."
Stepping past Lang and Roche, Zura started walking towards the colony buildings. A broad trail of debris carpeted the ground, tracing the doomed ship's approach: large and small pieces of debris, from individual bolts to panels of hull plating.
Ahead of her, the colonists had gathered, standing in small groups at the end of the row of residences. A few had edged nearer, as their curiosity won out over their timidity or disgust. It was a human reaction, to stare at the scenes of an accident or tragedy long after the events were over. A few of the groups had begun to move aside, clearing away from her path.
The day still wasn't done. Stopping the raid was only treating the symptom. The greater problem was to deal with the source of the raid, and the reason for it. There had been a long line of coincidences since she'd arrived at the colony. And she still didn't like coincidences.
But the problem that truly mystified her — that she wracked her brain trying to resolve — was the twelve-year-old girl in her apartment.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Zura walked the last hundred metres toward the row of residences, datasheet held in front of her.
A few stunned-looking colonists mumbled words of thanks as she passed, but most just stepped aside. Witnessing combat — however brief and one-sided — would affect them, she knew that. Their homes and safety had been threatened. For some of them, it would be a cold reminder of what humans were capable of doing to each other.
She was skimming several articles on her datasheet, researching how a child might be affected. There were countless articles on human children — some of it contradictory — and relatively little on Palani children. For hybrid children, there was virtually nothing. Too many variables. The child might respond like a typically-delicate human child, or might respond like a tougher, more resilient Palani child. At least, that's what the Palani research suggested.
She let go of the datasheet, allowing it to roll itself back up. As with so many things about people, there were no reliable sources of data. No 'if this, then that' answers. And, since she'd accepted temporary responsibility for the child, it was up to her to figure it out. Taking a life was easy; nurturing one was difficult or impossible. Just as it had always been, she supposed.
Irasa stood at the bottom of the steel steps, and bowed as Zura arrived. "Mahasa."
"The child is well?"
"I believe so, Mahasa. She would not let me enter, and did not wish to speak with me."
"Very well," said Zura, starting up the steps. "Remain here."
"Yes, Mahasa."
The metal grating clanged underfoot as she approached the door, her footsteps slowing. She pressed the button on the door console, noticing the armour on her left forearm was still smudged with human blood.
Turning left inside the door, Zura headed for the small bathroom at the back of her office. The blood came off easily with water, and as she patted her armour dry she looked into the mirror.
The same old face, vandalised by scars. The same scowl; she'd worn it for so long, the lines on her forehead had become permanent. The battered armour, coloured the same cobalt blue her hair had once been, and with the image of her gold chain across her chest. A tired-looking old warrior, she thought, not a wise counsellor for a child.
She squared her shoulders for the woman in the mirror. Duty meant a lot of things. It meant not shying away from responsibility, no matter how large or small. She turned on one heel and walked from the bathroom. Checking the console on the wall, she ascended the stairs to the apartment. One hour and three minutes until Kahala Hila arrived at Kinnihik.
On entering the apartment, there was no sign of Yaella. Zura's helmet was sitting on the corner of the kitchen table, and she picked it up as she walked quietly by.
In her bedroom, she put away her weapons and removed her armour, resolving to clean it later.
She started putting on her uniform, but stopped when she picked up her coat. Holding it in front of her, she looked at the blue coat with its gold embroidery and decorations. Was it better to wear the uniform — to show strength, stability, and authority — or to leave it off, to appear 'warm' or 'approachable'? She'd never had to think about it before. It had been centuries since she'd dealt with another person without the structure of hierarchy and procedure. Why were there no clear rules for this? And why was it bothering her more than facing a hundred thousand Horlan? On an impulse, she draped the coat over the back of her chair and left the bedroom.
There was no sound coming from the storage room door as she approached. She listened for a moment and, hearing nothing, gently rapped her knuckles on the door.
"Yes?" came a tiny voice.
"It's me. Zura." That sounded stupid. Who else would it be? "May I speak with you?"
The silence went on for much longer than Zura expected. She was starting to wonder if Yaella had heard her. "Okay," Yaella said at last. The storage room door cracked open.
Zura gently slid the door open farther and looked inside.
The room was brighter than she'd expected, with small lights affixed to the walls. Four datapads hung on one wall, showing scenes of open countryside. Two of them were of Earth — older pictures, Zura presumed — showing green trees and fields under a light blue sky. The other two were of Palani Yaal La, showing a snow-covered landscape with majestic valaan trees.
The cushions from the couch lined the floor, covered by neatly-arranged sheets. Yaella sat in the middle of her makeshift bed, cross-legged, with a datapad in her lap.
Thankful that the Fuckitall was still in her system, Zura lowered herself to the floor. She leaned her back against the doorframe, stretching her gleaming boots out into the kitchen. Yaella barely glanced up from her datapad.
"Are you well, Yaella?"
The girl shrugged. "I guess."
"What did you see today?"
Another shrug. "We were in class, and heard the big gun going off. We went outside, and everyone freaked out when they saw the ship. People were running around. But I wanted to see it, I guess."
"Then what happened?"
Yaella remained quiet a while. She nodded her head in the direction of the crashed ship outside. "I watched the ship smash into the ground, and the other ship landed. When the shooting started, I laid down on the ground."
Zura nodded. She wanted Yaella to look at her, so she could read the girl's face. "Did you see anyone getting hurt?"
Yaella shook her head. "When I looked up, I saw you and your soldiers. And all those people were lying on the ground. I thought they were being arrested. I ran to you, because…" she looked at Zura, then away again. "…I don't know. I saw the people on the ground. Are they all dead?"
"Some of them. Some are with Doctor Singh." She watched Yaella a moment. "Were you afraid?"
Yaella looked back at the datapad in her hands, fidgeting with it in her fingers. She nodded. "Yeah. But no, too. You said you'd protect us. I knew you would. I just didn't know… I thought it would be like the movies."
Zura looked away into the kitchen. "Yaella, do you remember what I told you, back when you got in a fight with Shirley?"
Yaella just shrugged. "I guess."
"I told you that violence is bad. It still is. People get hurt. But sometimes, when nothing else works, it's all we're left with. Sometimes we're left to either give up what we believe in, or fight for it. I wish it wasn't like that, but it is."
"But why?" asked Yaella, holding the datapad in white-knuckled hands. "Why? What did those people want?"
"They were slavers, Yaella. They wanted to round up everyone here and sell them to the Uta as slaves. And when people fought back, they got angry." Zura cleared her throat; she felt like she had a hitch in her voice all of a sudden. "That's what happened to my family when I was little. But I'm not going to let it happen again. Not to you. Not to anyone."
"Was it slavers that killed your mom and dad?"
Zura felt warmth growing in her eyes. It had been so long ago,
but it still hurt. "Yes, Yaella. They killed my mom, my dad, my little brother, and everyone else. I hid in the hills and they didn't find me."
Yaella's eyes went to Zura's gold-striped breeches and black boots. "Is that why you're a soldier?"
"Yes. To protect people." Zura tilted her head a little, rolling her eyes. "That was the original idea, anyway."
"Can I do that?"
"Do this? Do what I do?"
Yaella nodded.
"You could. Many soldiers aren't like me. Most of them are good people." She tried to offer a smile, hoping it looked reassuring. "But I think there are other things in store for you, Yaella. Good things."
"Oh." Yaella looked momentarily disappointed, before losing herself in thought. Her eyes went back to her datapad.
Zura leaned forward, pretending to look at Yaella's datapad. "What are you reading?"
"Just a book. It's called 'Ice Queen'."
Zura coughed to suppress a laugh. "I'm reading it, too. What do you think of it?"
Yaella shrugged. "It's stupid. But I like it."
"Yeah," nodded Zura. "Me too." She paused, waiting for Yaella to look back at her. "Maybe we can talk again later?"
"Okay," said Yaella.
"Good. I have to go to my office downstairs, but I'll be back in a little while."
"Okay."
Zura grabbed the doorframe as she rose to her feet.
"Zura?"
She looked down at Yaella. The girl hadn't looked up from her datapad. "Yes?"
"Thank you."
Chapter Thirty-Four
"Reporting as ordered, Mahasa. Five minutes to arrival at Kinnihik."
Zura set her teacup down on her desk and looked at Captain Upara in the datasheet's window. "Very well, Captain."
"Your orders, Mahasa?"
She'd been thinking about it for a little while. There would be a line to tread between investigating complicity and instigating a war with the Uta. Much like the humans, the Uta were fiercely tribal. Their clans rarely cooperated unless there was an external threat or — more likely — there was a chance for profit.
